


Let me pick off your petals

by Shut_Up_Marius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shut_Up_Marius/pseuds/Shut_Up_Marius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idea from a prompt on makinghugospin, one of the earlier rounds: "Jehan wears more flowers and bright colors when he's upset about something, to cheer himself up. Maybe someone notices?"</p><p>Courfeyrac knows there's something wrong with his friend, it's literally right before his eyes, but Jehan remains stubbornly silent about his problems. Thankfully, Courfeyrac is just as stubborn as the poet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me pick off your petals

"Wow, Jehan..." Courfeyrac spluttered.

He may have been used to his friend's eccentric fashion sense, but today, Jehan gave 'colourful' a whole new meaning. Courfeyrac was fairly certain he ought to have bought some lucky florist's entire stock for the day in order to adorn himself. And that didn't even take into account the gigantic bouquet he was carrying: it had to be its own living entity.

The eye couldn't help but be caught by an explosion of colours that would have made more than one haute couture creator jealous. Purples brushed reds, oranges met soft pinks, fuschias embraced yellows, and still there was an order to it all. Against all odds, the poet had managed to create an harmonious arrangement.

"What is it?" Jehan glared.

Jehan... _glared_? Something wasn't right, here. Jean Prouvaire was an inexhaustible well of cheerfullness. Jean Prouvaire didn't do sadness and wouldn't stand for morosity. So, quite clearly, something was wrong. _'Tread carefully, Courf...'_

"You're extremely flowery today, is all! Are you going to be selfish or are you going to share these beauties with me?" he pouted.

"I guess parting with a couple of my friends here couldn't hurt," he sighed after sitting down at Courfeyrac's table. He carefully put down the many blooms for his friend to admire. "Besides, this bouquet is incredibly heavy."

"Did you ask the florist to let you do the arrangement yourself again?" Courfeyrac chuckled as he bent down to take a whiff of the bouquet's perfume. A few locks of his brown hair fell into his eyes.

"Yes," Jehan smiled shyly. "This nice young man was gracious enough to let me spin around his shop for a while, picking up this and that."

"A nice young man, eh?"

"Well, he was nice, yes. A bit confused, and maybe a bit wary, but he-"

"Couldn't say no to this gorgeous face?" Courfeyrac interrupted, and Jehan gave a merry laugh.

"I honestly think it's more a case of him realising I was harmless enough."

"Foolish man," the brunette shook his head knowingly.

"Right? He doesn't need to know, Courf," Jehan whispered conspiratorially.

"So, tell me, what's the occasion for all this? Is it the summer solstice already?"

A shadow passed over Jehan's hazel eyes and he looked down at the bouquet, fingers idly carressing the stems.

"Just a whim of mine," he shrugged.

"Jean Prouvaire, I can tell you're lying to me," Courfeyrac deadpanned as he pushed at Jehan's forehead with a gentle index finger so he could meet his eyes. "Or do you think I know you so little? I will not push if you don't want to talk about it, but I trust you'd come to one of your friends if you needed anything."

"Of course. I'm going to get myself a tea. Do you want anything?"

"Least subtle change of subject ever," Courfeyrac remarked shrewdly and, at a roll of Jehan's pretty eyes, sighed. "No, thank you, I'm good. No, wait!" he called after the poet, who doubled back. "I could go for a triple chocolate cookie, please."

Jehan gave him the fondest of smiles as he shook his head, his loose braid of soft red hair swaying as he did so.

Courfeyrac melted back into his armchair. Sweetest Jehan. Terrifying Jehan, when he needed to be. Jehan, the perfection of his traits so obviously stolen from Boticelli's Venus that it was ridiculous. Jehan, whose flowery pants hugged his butt just the right way.

Jehan, who had taken to worrying his lower lip while he waited for his order to be filled. He was typing away on his phone, hitting the screen a tad too forcefully. He looked both anxious and preoccupied, a look that was usually reserved for the times he had exams to take since, despite his good grades, he'd always been an anxious student. Courfeyrac briefly wondered if maybe he still had exams to sit for but then remembered Jehan telling him he'd celebrated the end of the school year with a marathon of Keira Knightley movies.

He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't this close to Jehan. They'd known each other for two years, had met through Enjolras who was looking for members for his social justice club while they were still in high school. Every member of Les Amis de l'ABC was now in university and they'd even gone as far as choosing the same one so they could stay together and keep fighting for their ideals.

By now they'd become a semi-incestuous family, really. They were together more often than not and knew everything there was to know about one another, shared everything from dirty little secrets to plans for the future. It made them incredibly vulnerable but Courfeyrac had never trusted anyone quite that much. He felt safe. Probably would have put his life on the line for anyone of them.

And then there was Jehan. Courfeyrac loved all his friends but still felt like his relationship with Jehan transcended all others. He'd been attracted to the poet's charming, warm personality from the get-go and he considered himself the luckiest bastard on the planet that Jehan liked him at all: he was loud and he'd been told his energy could be overwhelming, but Jehan remained unaffected and amused. His quiet nature was even infectious, he grounded him.

"Are you sure you're alright, _petite fleur_?" Courfeyrac asked when he sat back down in front of him.

He reached out over the table to re-pin a flower that was trying to escape his friend's hair.

"I'm fine, Courf. Eat you cookie."

Courfeyrac threw himself back, crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. If he couldn't get it out of Jehan, then Courfeyrac was going to try and make him forget whatever was bothering him, even for a few minutes.

He took the cookie from the little plate in front of him and furiously bit into it, still managing to hold the pout in place. He chewed and groaned around his mouthful to show how vexed he was. He squinted and glared the entire time it took for him to eat his cookie, and the whole time, Jehan grinned from ear to ear at his childish antics.

He wiped his hands on his napkin with a little more force than necessary and ended up ripping it to shreds, tiny bits of white fluff floating to the floor around him. Jehan giggled.

"Here, I ate my cookie!" he said, then smiled purposefully, knowing there was some leftover chocolate in his teeth.

"Courfeyrac! Ew! You are vile," Jehan grimaced through his laughter.

"Well, it seemed like you needed to see this," he replied, satisfied. _'My job here is done.'_

Courfeyrac left the café with an enormous bouquet he carried around all day, a spring in his step and a proud grin on his lips despite the intrigued looks that followed him.

When he saw Jehan again that evening with the rest of their friends, the poet had shed a good half of the flowers that had covered him in the morning, and while everyone enjoyed the festive atmosphere of their usual café, they distributed the flowers from Courfeyrac's bouquet to patrons and passers-by until only a few blooms remained.

Courfeyrac shared these with Jehan, who still looked incredibly sad when no one was watching.

***********************

"Courfeyrac, are you even listening to me right now?"

His name out of Enjolras' mouth jolted Courfeyrac out of his thoughts and he looked up so sharply that his neck cracked.

"Owww!"

The three of them were huddled around a small table in a café they'd seeked shelter in after a sudden thunderstorm had threatened to soak them to the bone.

"It seems like our friend has other things on his mind," Combeferre remarked, a small frown on his face.

"He's never listening to a word I say anyway," Enjolras complained.

"I am, too! I'm just... preoccupied. Sorry."

"Anything we can do to help?" Combeferre asked as he took off his glasses to clean them on his shirtsleeve.

"I don't know. I'm worried about Jehan."

"What's the problem with him?"

"We saw him just yesterday and he looked fine," Enjolras pointed out.

"Are you kidding me? He wasn't feeling well and it was glaringly obvious."

"Hmm, how so?"

"Are you serious? Am I the only one who actually pays attention to the guy?" Courfeyrac was genuinely shocked, and a bit offended on his friend's behalf.

"You're certainly the one who pays him _the most_ attention," Combeferre pointed out, not even bothering to hide the subtext in his remark.

"Someone has to! He's so delicate!" _'Points to you for not raising to the bait, Courfeyrac. Go, you!'_

Enjolras snorted and rolled his eyes at this, which caused Courfeyrac to glare at him.

"Please. Prouvaire can take care of himself. He proved it on many occasions. Don't underestimate him."

"I'm not. I know Jehan can kick anybody's ass. Hell, I'm pretty sure he could take Grantaire or Bahorel if he wanted to. But lately he's been... different."

"It seriously hasn't shown, Courfeyrac."

"Yes, it has," he bit out, angry at Enjolras' dismissal. "Have you not noticed the freaking flowers, for God's sake? Maybe there weren't enough of them, after all he was only carrying half of a flower shop on his back!"

"You just described Jehan on any given day, my friend," Combeferre said in his softest voice, hoping to appease the brunette's wrath.

"No! No! You just don't see it!" Courfeyrac took a deep breath then exhaled long and hard in hopes that it would help get his frustration down to manageable levels. "Okay, let me break this down for you: when Jehan is sad or something's upset him, he'll wear more colourful clothing than usual. If it's really bad, he'll carry flowers because they make him feel better."

"Like a buffer or sorts? Interesting theory. Do you have actual proof?"

"Christmas last year: he'd just messed up his French Literature exam. Do you remember what he was wearing to Bahorel's party?"

"Oh God, that monstrous marroon jumper with yellow flowers sewn on it. And his pants were... bright green?"

"Indeed, they were. What about back in February, when this gay rights activist was attacked in the street and the court blamed the guy because he was wearing 'indecent clothing', do you remember that? Do you remember the meeting at the Musain afterwards?"

"He came wearing a top hat embroidered with a braid of flowers that went halfway down his back. He looked like a bad Boy George lookalike," Combeferre confirmed.

"And he wore some outrageous shades of pink for two weeks after that," Enjolras mused aloud, finally getting it.

"So, you see, he's cheering himself up the best that he can."

"And so you're worried because of last week's demonstration of one of his outlandish styles, then?"

"I'm worried because he wouldn't say what was wrong. I don't usually need to pry information out of him, he gives it quite willingly. But he pretty much shut me out, although he did promise he'd go to one of us if he felt the need."

"Well, it's the best you can get at the moment, I suppose. Forcing a conversation on him wouldn't be very respectful of his feelings. You reminded him he could confide in us; it's his move, now."

Courfeyrac really, truly hated it when Combeferre was so freaking reasonable.

******************

"Hi."

A week after his conversation with Enjolras and Combeferre, Courfeyrac startled when Jehan joined him and his friends before his morning classes on campus and threw down his bag at his feet.

"Good morning, Jehan... Is everything alright?"

 _'Fucking finally!'_ Courfeyrac quipped to himself as Enjolras' eyes narrowed on the poet's face.

Jehan had braided himself a crown of flowers that was sitting on top of his head and made him look like the goddess of spring herself. Flowers Courfeyrac ignored the names of tangled and looped around each other, fat blooms snuggling delicate petals.

Jehan had gone all out today; he was literally covered in flowers. He was wearing these pants again. The deep blue Doc Martens and the solid purple button-down shirt were the only monochromic items he was wearing.

"Jean." And Jehan looked up at that because he knew Enjolras never used his first name unless he meant business. "Are you alright?"

"Just peachy. Have a flower, Enjolras," was the answer the leader got as Jehan thrust a violently pink carnation under his nose.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Jehan had glued a few blooms onto his bag as well, and he had a handful of flowers left in his hand again. Nothing as impressive as the gigantic bouquet, though.

Jehan gave his friends a carnation each, his eyes daring them to comment on the gesture. Knowing that crossing him could be dangerous, they merely thanked him. When his task was done, Jehan saluted them, his mouth set in a smile that didn't reach his eyes, then walked away as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

"I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder as his feet hurried after Jehan of their own accord.

"Shouldn't you leave him alone?" Joly shouted after him, proving that Combeferre and Enjolras had informed the others of Jehan's current state of mind.

"Oh, he'll tell me that himself, don't you worry!" he casually waved his friend off, clutching his dark red carnation in his other hand.

Courfeyrac found Jehan waiting by the entrance to his first class of the day, a forlorn look creasing his eyebrows.

"So dutifully on time, _petite fleur_."

"What do you want, Courf?" he sighed, his features relaxing a little.

"To say hi, for starters," he replied, not phased by Jehan's lack of enthusiasm. "Enjolras is the only one who had the pleasure of hearing your melodic voice this morning and it's just not fair."

"Hi."

"Hello, gorgeous," he grinned.

"I'm really not in the mood."

"So I gathered... I-" Courfeyrac got cut off by the sound of Jehan's phone ringing. He wasn't surprised, the ritual was the same every morning since he'd first met his friend.

The poet dug it out of his pocket, held a finger to ask Courfeyrac to wait until he was done then walked off for more privacy. The hall was still empty at this time of day so he could hear the conversation clear as day, but Courfeyrac dutifully pretended he couldn't hear it.

"Hi, mom... Yes, I'm there... Just History... No, of course History is important, that's not what I meant... I got decent grades... Well, I chose to focus on other subjects... Of course. I always do... Right. Bye, mom."

Jehan's posture was rigid. Courfeyrac couldn't tell whether he was more likely to blow up or break down into tears. His mother's irruptions into his life tended to rattle Jehan. While his parents had always been loving, they'd never gone easy on their only son. They'd made his academic success a mission Jehan was terrified to fail.

He took a few seconds to compose himself before he walked back to Courfeyrac, visibly subdued.

"Was that Mrs Prouvaire?"

"Indeed. You know the drill," he said as he waived a dismissive hand between them.

"So, I wanted to say thank you for this," Courfeyrac said, and pointedly twirled the stem of his single flower between two fingers in front of Jehan's face.

"Stop it!" he chuckled as he batted his hand away.

"Okay, so listen up," Courfeyrac started, changing his stance from playful to serious. He'd suddenly remembered why he'd come in the first place.

He laid his palm flat on the centre of his friend's chest to get his attention. Jehan submitted to his friend's touch willingly, letting himself be pressed against the wall. There was no tension here, they trusted each other too much for that. Courfeyrac was close enough that he could catch every freckle on Jehan's nose.

But he couldn't find the right words. He'd already said all he had to say the last time the poet had been depressed. It was on the tip of his tongue to repeat everything to assure Jehan that he was here for him, but it would have been redundant; his friend already knew.

So Courfeyrac just stared into Jehan's eyes, intense dark brown into vulnerable hazel, willing the shorter man to understand how unbearable his distress was. When it became clear nothing was going to happen, Courfeyrac leaned in, planted a kiss on Jehan's forehead and left, something heavy weighing on the pit of his stomach.

*******************

"Oh, no, not today... Dammit," Combeferre cursed softly, attracting all of his friends' attention.

Almost as one, they turned to see what had their usually composed friend swearing, only to see Jehan saunter into their café.

Courfeyrac could swear he heard his heart shatter as the rainbow of colours that was the poet came in and joined them. Today, there had been no attempt at colour coordinating whatsoever; everything clashed.

Jehan looked like he'd gone paintballing and someone had dropped the entire stock of paint on his head. He was wearing a bright pink shirt that hugged his lean yet muscled torso, soft orange pants with green pockets. The electric blue cardigan thrown over his shoulders made the red of his hair stand out, and the bright red shoes with rainbow-coloured shoelaces should have been the icing on the cake but, really, the multi-coloured ribbons caught in his braid were rather eye-catching.

Courfeyrac cursed under his breath, echoing Combeferre's sentiment. Today was the day of the protest they'd been planning for months. It was supposed to be a peaceful event in support of gay marriage but everybody had to be in fine form to play their role to the best of their capacities.

Jehan was not in fine form. Yes, he was literally prancing towards them, but Jehan wasn't in fine form. Courfeyrac's concern levels shot through the roof when his friend gave the assembly the fakest smile he remembered ever seeing on his face.

"Hello, fellow oppression fighters."

And, amongst the various hellos, "Prouvaire, a word."

Now, Courfeyrac didn't expect Enjolras, of all people, to be quicker than him in reaching for Jehan. He could only hope their leader went soft on the poet.

The hushed conversation they had in a quiet corner of the café remained between them, no matter how hard Courfeyrac tried to catch the occasional sentence. All he managed to hear was Combeferre assigning last minute tasks to everyone. He was fairly sure Combeferre wasn't usually so loud, so he might have been trying to drown out the discussion on purpose.

"I could drive five of us there. Cosette's father was kind enough to let me borr-"

"Shut up, Marius! For the love of everything, shut up!"

Courfeyrac couldn't help himself. Enjolras and Jehan had been gone for a good five minutes now and he could just see the shadows of their bowed heads, Enjolras' hands sometimes gesturing towards Jehan as he was wont to do when he talked. It had been five minutes, he didn't know what was going on, Jehan wasn't confiding in him and Marius' voice was so annoying, he couldn't take it anymore.

And now everybody was looking at him as if he'd kicked a puppy.

"Are you alright, Courf?" Bahorel demanded, a little too stern to sound like he really cared about the answer. This felt more like a prompt to apologise.

"Yeah," Courfeyrac sighed, resigned. "Sorry, Marius, I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's okay, we're all under a lot of pressure."

"Courfeyrac, I need you to be on the ball. Look at me, Courf!" Courfeyrac's eyes snapped to Combeferre's at the irritated tone. "We're going to need someone to keep an eye on Jehan and I don't think you'd like it to be anyone but you. I need you to focus so we can establish how we're going to implement that. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, I... Yeah. Jesus," he breathed out as he ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"Good. So here's what's going to happen..."

A few minutes later, everyone was crystal clear on their assigned tasks. Courfeyrac was on Jehan duty. The poet was in charge of handing out flyers to passers-by on the periphery of their little procession. Courfeyrac's job was to accompany him, officially to hand out more flyers, officiously to look out for possible signs of a meltdown.

When Enjolras and Jehan came back from their corner, neither mentioned their conversation. Enjolras simply jumped right back in the game and told Jehan about his position in the protest, which he accepted with a graceful nod.

Fifteen minutes later, Marius was in the driver seat of his father-in-law's car, Grantaire beside him while Bossuet, Courfeyrac and Jehan sat squished in the back. The atmosphere was a lot more solemn than it usually was when this group shared a car. Courfeyrac was itching to ask Jehan about his discussion with Enjolras but the poet's closed expression held him back; the last thing he needed was to get on Jehan's bad side.

Instead, in order to show a modicum of the affection he wanted to shower his friend with right then, he reached out and grabbed Jehan's hand, lacing their fingers together. Jehan didn't recoil like he'd feared he would. He merely squeezed his hand once and started stroking his thumb up and down his skin. _'So right, this is so right.'_

They had to leave the car a few métro stations away from the site of the protest and take the métro because the police had locked down the area. They rode along with a lot of fellow protestors, if the slogans on their shirts and the rainbows painted on their cheeks were any indication. Courfeyrac reclaimed Jehan's hand as soon as they were settled against the pole in the middle of the carriage, the rest of their friends scattered in surrounding seats.

"Stop me if you've heard this one before but, are you alright?" he murmured in his ear. Jehan's eyes narrowed.

"I'm fine. But this is getting old, I really wish you'd stop asking me." He punctuated the sentence with a quick peck to Courfeyrac's lips. _'A shut-up peck.'_

Jehan had kissed him before, but this time it sent a jolt of electricity down the brunette's spine. He also felt the strong urge to pull the poet back in for a more thorough kiss. _'Well, that's new.'_ He settled for leaning his forehead against his friend's and sighing, which just wasn't as satisfying.

"Sorry, I can't help myself."

"I know. I love you but you need to stop pushing me on this."

He leant in, whispered "I love you, too" and kissed Jehan again. Something sweet, to show he meant no harm, and light, to give Jehan the freedom to pull back if he felt like this was pushing as well. Jehan didn't pull back and Courfeyrac thought he even chased his lips when he leant back. _'Did I dream that?'_

Soon enough, they reached the site of the protest and the beginning of the procession. Once they'd regrouped, Enjolras gave Courfeyrac and Jehan the backpack that contained all the flyers.

"You're our HR team. Now go charm the pants off these people or whatever it is you do to make them love you, and make sure you educate the hell out of them in the process."

Courfeyrac giggled and even Jehan gave a small chuckle.

"I'll take the backpack. I wouldn't want to ruin your look with something as ugly as this," the brunette said, motioning towards the bag in question.

"Oh, honey, you couldn't ruin my look if you tried."

Courfeyrac couldn't help but give the widest grin at this tiny glimpse of the real Jehan.

They set out before the procession started moving so they could give out more flyers and also get to talk to the people who had questions. Things got more difficult when the procession set out because of the noise, but at this point they were used to these protests and what they entailed.

Through all this, Courfeyrac kept an eye on Jehan, who was slightly behind him. He seemed to be doing just fine, engaging in conversation and looking as sociable as ever. If he hadn't known his friend was actually upset, Courfeyrac wouldn't have suspected a thing.

Things started going awry around halfway through the protest with the arrival of groups of people who'd come to tell them how wrong they were. They could hear insults thrown at the protesters, homophobic slurs and more general abuse, but always from within the crowd so they couldn't be spotted and called out.

Until one of the offenders made the mistake of coming close enough for Jehan to see him. Courfeyrac saw him try to reason with the man, because nothing annoyed a heckler more than patience thrown in his face, although he could tell by the set of Jehan's jaw that he longed to jump the guy. He seemed to be a couple of rows back in the crowd and Jehan had to shout for him to hear his words. Courfeyrac couldn't make out what they were, but from the way his friend's body kept on growing stiffer, he could tell it wasn't going well.

Then Jehan yelled something that looked aggressive even from where Courfeyrac was standing and, a heartbeat later, a huge mass hurled itself over the fence and used the momentum to throw itself at the poet.

Now, Jehan could have defended himself well enough, had two of the assailant's buddies not joined him. The crowd was too shocked to be of any help, but Courfeyrac's heart only missed a beat before he ran back towards his friend, yelling that he'd called the police and they were on their way. _'And where the actual fuck is the police?!'_

It was the oldest trick in the book, yet it worked. The three bullies hightailed it away from the scene in record time.

"Jehan! Hey, hey, don't move. Let me take a look at your face," Courfeyrac said in the most placating voice he could muster.

He threw himself down beside Jehan who was gasping from the pain. He put a hand on his chest to stop him moving and used the other to draw the redhead's arm back from his face. Both hissed when it was revealed, albeit for different reasons.

"Fucking hell. Those bastards."

"That bad, huh?"

Jehan's face, Jehan's perfect face was tainted ugly, painful colours. His left cheekbone was swelling up and dark purple was spreading under his eyes. Courfeyrac gently wiped the rivulets of blood running from his nose with his sleeve. People behind them asked how he was doing but Courfeyrac screamed at them to stay away.

"Where does it hurt, darling?"

"I'd say everywhere?" he garbled. "They kind of stepped on my legs when they ran away, and they kicked me in the ribs, and that first douchebag hit my face, if you couldn't tell."

"Do you feel nauseous? Tired? Is your vision blurry?"

"I don't have a concussion, don't worry."

Courfeyrac made a quick phone call to Bahorel, who was put in charge of coordination so they could be sure everyone could be reached, should the necessity arise. He hung up after Bahorel had assured him he'd send Joly ASAP.

"You're going to tell me what the hell is going on, Jean Prouvaire, I swear to God, and you're telling me right now. The Jehan I know would have kept his cool." Courfeyrac's clipped tone brooked not argument: he wouldn't back down this time.

"I've failed my first year."

"Jehan, I'm so sorry."

"I know you think I'm overreacting," he said as he attempted to sit up on his own.

Courfeyrac helped him up and, to steady him so he wouldn't put too much strain on his ribs, sat behind him, cradling him with his legs. Jehan rested his head on Courfeyrac's shoulder. He absolutely didn't think Jehan was overreacting. After all, he knew the difficult relationship he had with his parents.

"I've talked to so many of my professors to retake some exams, I even had an appointment with the chief of the Literature department. All in vain. It feels like I haven't breathed in a month."

"Retaking first year is actually quite common and some people do really well on their second try," Courfeyrac tried.

"Go tell my parents that. When I told them I wanted to study Literature, they were so disappointed. They let me because I promised I'd graduate summa cum laude. I'm damn good at Literature, I was so sure I could do it."

"And you can!"

"Obviously not!" he spat, angry. "They're going to ask me to give up Les Amis, Courf."

"What?!"

"I had to bargain with my parents so they'd let me join, back in high school. I graduated top of my class but, just before we started university, they still made me promise: if this year went well enough, then it meant I was focused enough to know where my priorities lay. Failing my first year shows I don't, therefore I have to quit Les Amis, and I have to change my major. That was the deal."

Courfeyrac had had no idea it went that far, that Jehan's parents were that controlling. That bordered on emotional manipulation. To try and guilt-trip their son into taking the path they wanted was unfair, unhealthy and cruel.

Before Courfeyrac could reply, their friends finally found them. Not only was it Joly, his emergency kit swinging as he ran towards them, but Bahorel, Feuilly and Marius had come, too. Rage and fear warred on their faces when they took in the poet's appearance.

Joly started probing his friend's face to check for broken bones as he asked Courfeyrac what had happened. The latter had never been happier for Joly's knowledge of emergency procedures. By then, Jehan's left eye was almost swollen shut. When Joly had determined that nothing was broken, they evacuated Jehan through the crowd and took a taxi back to their car because there was no way Jehan's ribs could have taken the métro ride back.

As Marius drove them back at a snail's pace to avoid hurting Jehan any further, Courfeyrac pondered on his friend's dilemma. It was true his parents had always been strict with their son, as if they were trying to counter-balance his wistful disposition with their stern realism. _'More like crush it.'_ Courfeyrac had a lot of things to tell Jehan's parents right now, none of them particularly civil.

A few hours later, Jehan was asleep in Courfeyrac's bed, officially for the patient's sake. Everyone was actually relieved to know he'd be watching their injured friend overnight. The poet slept peacefully enough as long as he didn't try to move. Then he'd surface for a few seconds, groan then sink back into sleep. The painkillers obviously helped.

When everyone was gone (after Enjolras had written a strongly-worded letter to authorities lamenting the lack of police coverage during the protest), Courfeyrac took a much needed shower. He took off his clothes and threw his hoodie on the floor; Jehan's nose had bled for a while and his sleeve was ruined, he doubted it would ever look the same again. Afterwards, he slipped into a shirt and boxers then joined Jehan.

Courfeyrac basically lived in a shoebox. The place was so tiny that he slept on a sofabed he didn't bother unfolding most of the time. He had done so for Jehan earlier and the redhead had chuckled a little at how much he'd struggled with the thing. But now he was facing a brand new problem: how was he supposed to slip in behind Jehan without waking him up? He made a real effort but even then, he wasn't shocked when he felt his friend stir.

"Heyyy."

"Hey, sorry, didn't mean to wake you up," Courfeyrac whispered as he hoisted himself up on an elbow to see Jehan's face. "Do you need more painkillers?"

"Nah, I'm all drugged out. I'm almost certain it wasn't only paracetamol in those pills, I feel so sluggish,"

"That's what sleep deprivation will do to you. But I don't know, maybe Joly slipped you something stronger."

"Maybe I'll become a junkie instead of going back to university," he mumbled. He let himself roll onto his back, keeping the moaning to a minimum.

"That's so far from funny."

"Sorry. Did you tell the others?"

"It wasn't my place, really. But I did tell them I'd finally made you talk about what's been eating at you. You didn't tell Enjolras in the Musain?"

"No. Persuasive as he may be, I wasn't ready. He asked if I was sure I wanted to come to the protest, if I was in the right frame of mind. Maybe I should have listened to him." He stayed silent for a few seconds before he started again, hesitant. "What tipped you off?"

"That you have to ask is almost offensive, really," Courfeyrac chuckled humourlessly. "It was your flowers and your colours, of course."

"They cheer me up. Soon enough, they'll be all I have left."

Courfeyrac lifted a hand to caress the unmarred side of his face with a single finger.

"Not as long as I'm here. I suppose you've tried talking to your parents?"

"I haven't, I've been too busy meeting with all the damned university staff to try and make it better. I'm seeing them tomorrow for lunch."

"Ah, no, you're not. Not with that face, unless you want to give them more ammunition."

"It doesn't matter either way, I know what they're going to say." Courfeyrac's breath hitched. "I'm not giving you up."

"Thank fuck," the brunette sighed with relief. "I was fully prepared to fight for you, shining armour and all." Jehan managed to giggle and groan simultaneously.

"You're cute."

"Yes, I am, and you love me," he winked.

"I do love you."

"See?" Courfeyrac replied, smug.

"No," Jehan said urgently, suddenly more alert. His hand shot out to grab Courfeyrac's wrist. "I love you."

There weren't a hundred ways to understand this sentence. For Courfeyrac, the complicated part was not to leap to the wrong conclusion. But the more he studied the expression in Jehan's vulnerable eyes, the more his instincts were crossing out all other possible meanings. When all that was left was exactly what Courfeyrac had hoped for, a smile broke out on his face. He couldn't have suppressed if he'd tried. _'When did I fall in love with Jean Prouvaire?'_

It should have felt momentous. For some reason, though, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It was merely putting words on something that had been there for a long while, just existing, lying in wait.

He freed his wrist so he could lace his fingers with Jehan's and carefully leant in to kiss him the way he'd wanted to earlier. He was content with soft presses of lips, but apparently Jehan had other plans. Soon enough, he felt the tip of his tongue teasing his lower lip and Courfeyrac growled. Jehan's free hand caressed up his face to go grab a fistful of his brown locks to pull him closer, only to recoil almost immediately.

"Ow, ow, ow," he chanted. Courfeyrac all but threw himself off him.

"I'm sorry, oh my God, are you okay?"

"We have the worst freaking timing, I swear," Jehan whined and squirmed as he held his nose. "Here I am, maimed and drugged, and that's the moment I choose to make the worst love confession in the history of love."

"I liked it," he smiled.

"You're not objective. I read and I write about love all day and let me tell you, that was mediocre at best." Now that he was laying still again, he looked at Courfeyrac. "So. Want to make out?"

"Uhh, no, not really. I'd rather wait until your face isn't this shade of purple anymore, if that's okay. I'd feel like I was making out with an angry beetroot that's liable to start howling in pain at any second."

"Oh, Courfeyrac," Jehan mock-sighed, "you do know how to sweet-talk a guy."

"I do, though!" he exclaimed. "I love you. You should know that."

"That's not sweet-talking but I like it anyway."

Courfeyrac returned to his position, plastered to Jehan's side, and started stroking his face again, a gentle finger caressing his skin.

"I'm going to help you through this, I promise," he whispered. "Your parents, university, anxiety. Everything. You'll be alright, _petite fleur_. You know there's a good reason we're called Les Amis, right? It's not just you against the world. We're here. I'm here."

Jehan's soft kiss carried all his hopes.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, "petite fleur" means "little flower" in French.
> 
> I, uh, toyed around with the French secondary school system. There's no such thing as "summa cum laude" in France, for instance. Or majors.


End file.
